Homicide in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  The Stars stadium was located in Echo Park, at the apex of the 5, 101, and 110 freeways. It was the kind of neighborhood where you could pay a half-million for a two bedroom cottage down the street from a massage parlor that offered "happy endings" for twenty bucks. Transitional might have been the word to describe it, only this neighborhood had been transitioning for the last fifteen years. Its residents called it "eclectic," but Geico called it "high risk."

  I pulled into the stadium parking lot, driving around to the east side where the players' entrance was located. Without a game today, the lot was a ghost town except for a small section near the players' entrance where rows of sports cars and luxury SUVs stood gleaming in the sun. I slipped my mini-van into a slot near the back, hoping it didn't stick out too badly, and made my way to a tall guy in a black security uniform standing by the entrance.

  "Maddie Springer," I told him. "I'm a guest of Kendra Blanco."

  "Just a moment," he told me, pulling up an electronic tablet and gliding his finger over the surface. A moment later he must have found my name on the list, as he nodded. "Mrs. Blanco is already here. She said you could go on in." He moved aside and held open the glass doors for me.

  I thanked him and stepped into an air conditioned corridor.

  Like much of Los Angeles, the stadium was built on a hill, the field and concessions above ground, while the business offices and private areas were carved into the hillside as an underground world. One large corridor ran the circumference of the stadium with several smaller walkways and doors leading off to the left and right. As I wound my way through the inner workings of the Stars' world I spied break rooms, training areas with weight machines, and a ton of offices housing the administrative arms of the franchise. I was starting to worry that I'd be lost forever in the maze of cool, white hallways when I finally spotted a ramp to the field about halfway through my stadium lap.

  I took it and found myself once again in the bright, warm sunshine, squinting at a scattering of guys in various work-out gear tossing balls to each other on the field. Most were working in groups of twos and threes, coaches shouting directions as players worked out their kinks.

  But I spotted Bucky thankfully alone.

  Near the dugout, Bucky was swinging a bat at a pitching machine. It shot a white blur toward him, and the crack of his bat sent it back toward the far stadium seats, echoing in the empty arena. I watched him hit three or four in a row, then pause to sip from a Gatorade bottle as a young kid in a Stars jacket emerged from the dugout to refill the machine.

  "Bucky Davis?" I asked, approaching him from behind.

  "Yeah?" he answered, not turning around, his attention still completely focused on the fake pitcher in front of him as if staring the machine down.

  "Uh, hi. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?"

  "Shoot," he told me, swigging his drink again.

  I cleared my throat, having a hard time broaching the subject of his dead girlfriend to the back of his head. "Uh, it's about Lacey."

  I watched his back stiffen, then he spun around, his blue eyes narrowing at me. "You a reporter?"

  "No," I shook my head quickly. "No, I'm…with the salon. Where she was…" I trailed off.

  I watched Bucky's jaw clench. "What do you want?"

  "I wanted to ask you a few questions about Lacey."

  "Why?"

  Great question. I doubted that saying because I thought he killed her was going to get me very far. Instead, I went with a small half-truth. "For our insurance purposes." I was pretty sure Faux Dad had some kind of insurance.

  It seemed to work as some of the suspicion drained from his eyes. "Oh. Right. Sure, what do you want to know?"

  "We noticed that Lacey was coming into the salon an awful lot," I started with.

  He nodded. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, she liked to look pretty."

  "She was spending a lot of money there."

  He shrugged. "Hey, money spent on looking pretty is money well spent in my book, right?" He gave me his all-American smile, but it never quite made it to his eyes. Which, I noticed were rimmed in red like he'd spent more time crying than sleeping in that last couple of days. In fact, he looked exactly the way I'd expect a brokenhearted, grieving boyfriend to look. Which made me wonder if maybe he really was grieving. I'd seen him in the Stars commercials. And actor, he was not.

  "Right. Well, we're a little concerned with how much she was spending," I said, trying to find a tactful way to put it.

  His sandy brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, she was spending upwards of three hundred dollars a week at our salon alone. Cash."

  He blinked at me. "You gotta be joking?"

  I shook my head. "No joke. And the clothes she was wearing?"

  "What about them?"

  "Designer. As in expensive."

  "How expensive?" he asked, the confusion in his face making it clear that he was connecting the same dots about Lacey that I had. She'd had way more money to spend than she should have.

  "Seven-hundred-dollar-heels expensive."

  He did more blinking, the frown between his brows deepening.

  "Do you know where she was getting that kind of money?"

  He looked behind me, as if searching the ball field for the answers. "No. But, I mean, maybe she got a raise or something. She works at a boutique on Melrose. Tony DeCicco's wife owns it."

  I bit my lip. "Actually, Liz told me Lacey didn't work there anymore."

  He did more blinking, the surprise on his face plain. If he was faking, he was doing a bang-up job of it.

  "She didn't?"

  I nodded. "She didn't mention that to you?"

  "Nuh-uh…" He trailed off, the realization that his dead girlfriend had been keeping secrets from him sinking in. I had to admit, I felt sorry for the guy. I was having a hard time keeping him in the suspect numero uno spot.

  "Do you know if she had signed on to do the Baseball Wives show?" I asked. "Maybe received an advance from them?"

  But he just shrugged. "I'm sorry. I don't know."

  "I have to ask…someone said they heard you two fighting. Last week after a game."

  His jaw clenched, and I could see his eyes growing wet. "Yeah. We did."

  "Can you tell me what that was about?" I asked.

  His eyes welled up, and he shook his head, suddenly sinking to sit on the wooden bench behind him. "It was so stupid. I mean now, with her gone, it seems like a totally petty thing."

  "What was it?"

  "I got home early from our series in Denver," he said, finally looking up. "I called her to go out, but she didn't pick up. All night. When I confronted her the next day after the game, she got all cagey."

  "Cagey?" I repeated, feeling my suspicion radar perk up.

  "Yeah, like she didn't want to tell me where she was. I got sorta upset and accused her of being out with someone else. Then she got totally upset and said I needed to trust her more. It got kinda loud, so I'm not surprised someone overheard."

  "Did she ever say where she was?"

  He shrugged. "She said it was a girl's night out at City Walk that went a little late. That's it. I mean, we made up the next day."

  My heart sank. While I was 90% sure Lacey had been lying to her boyfriend, I also had a feeling Bucky was telling the truth to me now. And I didn't see him being the type to kill over a girl's night gone late.

  * * *

  Out of leads and out of ideas, I pointed my car toward home. Ramirez's SUV was parked in the drive, but the house was silent as I slipped my key in the lock.

  "Hello?" I called, pushing the door open. "Anyone home?" I did a slow survey of the living room and felt my stomach clench. Again no toys littered the floor. No piles of diapers. No half-drank bottles or sippy cups on the coffee table. Ditto in kitchen. The sink was void of any dirty dishes, the counters were cleared, and the dishwasher hummed contentedly. If I didn't know better, I'd even say someone had washed the floors.


  I hated to say it, but my husband was Super Mom.

  I was just about to go check if he'd had time to do the laundry, too—then shoot myself for being such a slacker at this obviously easy mom thing—when the back door opened and Ramirez appeared pushing the twins' double stroller.

  "Hey, look who's ba-ack," he sing-songed. "It's Mama."

  This resulted in two rounds of giggles and raised arms from Max and Livvie.

  I bent down, unbuckling Max from his seat, and gave Livvie kisses on the top of her head. "Everything go okay today?" I asked.

  "Great," Ramirez said, pulling Livvie from her seat and setting her down on shaky toddler legs on the kitchen tile.

  "They give you any trouble?" I asked, wondering what Livvie had been told to spit out earlier.

  "Nope."

  "You even had time to clean the house, huh?" I gestured to the spotless room.

  "Yep," he answered, doing the one word thing again.

  "Huh. I'm impressed," I admitted.

  He grinned at me. "What? You think I can't be a domestic kind of guy?"

  While it should have made me happy, I was slightly annoyed that he had done it. And better than I had.

  "No, it's great. I'm glad it all went well."

  "It did. And my buddy at the station got back to me with Lacey's financials."

  Great. Super Mom, and he'd done more detective work than I had, too.

  "You okay?" he asked, cocking his head at me.

  "Peachy," I lied. "What did you learn about Lacey?" I asked, trying to hide my inexplicably foul mood.

  "Okay, so here's what we know," Ramirez told me, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the kitchen counter, quickly shifting from domestic-kind-of-guy to Cop Mode. "Lacey was receiving regular deposits into her bank account. They started just over a month ago. Weekly deposits of large sums of cash."

  "How large are we talking?"

  "Ten thousand."

  "Wow."

  "Each."

  I blinked at him, doing some mental math. "That's at least—"

  "Fifty-thousand dollars over the last five weeks."

  "I'm guessing the production company did not pay her fifty-thousand dollars in five cash increments?"

  Ramirez shook his head. "Nope. Though, she was actually set to join the cast in the new season. But the producers confirmed that they paid per episode once production began. And not nearly that much for a first-timer on a reality show."

  I bit my lip. Cash deposits, no paper trail, and no shortage of secrets. I could think of one way a gold digging celebrity girlfriend like that could come up with a money-making scheme.

  Blackmail.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning the first thing I smelled was freshly brewed coffee. The scent pulled me out of bed and toward its delicious caffeinated aroma, despite the fact the sun was barely peeking through the early morning smog layer.

  "Coffee?" I croaked out.

  Ramirez handed me a mug that read: Real Women Do it Backwards and In Heels. "Morning, sunshine."

  "You're up early," I mumbled, gratefully taking a sip. Heaven.

  Ramirez nodded. "Tox screen on Lacey is coming in this morning. I'm meeting my buddy for coffee to get a look at it." He paused. "That is, unless you've got some hot lead to follow this morning?"

  I shook my head, ashamed to say I didn't.

  "So you're good watching the munchkins today?" Ramirez asked.

  I nodded, then, as if on cue, I heard tiny voices babbling through the baby monitor. I followed them to the nursery where both twins were wide awake and demanding their breakfast.

  A whirlwind morning of diapers, bottles, mashed bananas, and flying Cheerios later, I decided I needed more info about the Baseball Wives. If Lacey had been blackmailing someone, the wives and Stars players were the most likely suspects. True, she hadn't been invited into their inner circle with open arms, but she could have been close enough to stumble on a scandalous secret that someone was willing to pay to keep quiet. And possibly even kill over.

  I streamed every episode of Baseball Wives that Amazon had, trying to come up with any clue as to who Lacey could have targeted. But by the time I got to the last season, I'd had my celebrity gossip fix for the year but hadn't narrowed my suspect field any. Cheating husbands, backstabbing socialites, money, sex, rehab. It seemed that airing their dirty laundry was number one on the wives' list of to-dos. It all led to ratings. So what secret would they kill to keep?

  I was just finishing up the last episode when my cell rang, displaying Marco's number.

  "Hey," I said, picking up.

  "You home, Maddie?"

  "Yes," I hedged. "Why?"

  "Good. We're on our way over."

  "We?"

  "Ling and I."

  "To what do I owe this visit?" I asked, my suspicion radar humming.

  "Clown auditions."

  I prayed I'd heard him wrong. "What did you say?"

  "Sorry, bad connection. Be there in ten!" he called, then hung up.

  I sat staring at my cell, waffling between the options of grabbing the kids and hightailing it out of there before Marco showed up or locking the doors and pretending we weren't home after all. In the end neither seemed likely to work. Marco had a key, and there was zero chance of getting two toddlers out the door in under ten minutes.

  Instead, I made another pot of coffee and was fortifying myself with a fresh cup when I heard a knock on the door.

  "Yoo-hoo," Marco said, not bothering to wait for me to answer before stepping inside. Today he was a vision in Day-Glo orange pants in a paisley print, and a turquoise muscle T.

  "Please tell me that connection was really bad and I didn't hear you mention clowns," I told him.

  He shook his head. "No, I didn't say clowns."

  I sighed with relief. "Oh good."

  "I said clown. Singular."

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  "I hope this is quick," Ling said, pushing into the room behind him. She was dressed in a tube top, tube skirt, and looked like she'd applied about a tube and a half of pale pink lipstick. "I gotta get in for the lunch crowd. Those truckers tip big when we have the lunch buffet."

  I really hoped she was talking about chicken wings.

  "Okay, don't hate me—" Marco said, settling himself on the sofa.

  "Too late."

  "But it turns out we can't get Johnny Weir. Something about the Ice Capades and a contract and, blah, blah, blah. Anyhoo, I've got the next best thing. A clown!"

  I blinked. "How is a clown the next best thing to an Olympic figure skater?"

  Marco waved me off. "The agency said they were sending their top performer over, so we're auditioning him today."

  "You know, the twins really don't need a big performance," I told him, glancing at Max. He was lying on his back, currently enthralled with his big toe. "They're pretty easily entertained."

  Marco gave me a horror stricken look. "How can we have a children's birthday party without a clown? Who will man the balloon animal station?"

  "You're right. Let's just cancel the whole thing."

  "Not funny, Mads," he said, wagging a finger at me.

  I didn't have the heart to tell him I wasn't joking.

  I was about to plead my case in earnest when the doorbell rang.

  I shot Marco a look. "You sent the clown here? To my house?"

  Marco was wise enough not to answer, instead scuttling to open the door.

  On the other side stood a six foot tall, broad shouldered guy who looked like he belonged on the gridiron more than the circus train. He was dressed in a pair of yellow spandex pants, a polka dotted shirt, and had an afro of bright red hair that perfectly matched his round, red nose. His face was painted white, his wig was a little squished on one side, and I noticed a bicycle helmet dangling from his right hand and a messenger bag slung over his left shoulder.

  "Hey. This the party place?" he asked, his voice a deep baritone.

  "It
is! Send in the clowns!" Marco said, then giggled at his own joke.

  I didn't even try to hide my eye roll.

  The linebacker clown came in and looked around. "Nice place. Cozy."

  I narrowed my eyes. Was the clown commenting on the size of my house?

  "I'm Marco, this is Ling, and these are the guests of honor," Marco said, gesturing to the twins.

  The clown waved at them. Max and Livvie eyed him suspiciously. Smart kids.

  "And this is, Maddie," Marco told him, gesturing my way.

  "Hey. Big Red," he said. Then he stuck his hand out to shake mine and a spray of confetti flew out of his sleeve.

  "Oh, geeze," he said, trying to stem the flow of colorful paper flying all over my living room carpet. "That's not supposed to come out until later. I think I got a hole in my sparkle bag or something on the way over. Sorry about that."

  "No problem," I gritted out, mentally calculating if I had time to vacuum before the twins' nap.

  "The agency said you were their best clown," Marco said, whipping out a notebook, all business.

  Big Red nodded, his wig flopping up and down. "That's right. Of course, I was second best, but Sparky quit last week. Got a regular gig on Nickelodeon as a singing pirate. Lucky bastard."

  "Right. So we're very eager to see what you can do," Marco said. He sat on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other in his casting-call mode.

  "You want me to juggle or something? I'm real good at juggling. I've been practicing." He looked in his bag, a frown taking over his painted features. "Shoot. I musta lost one of my balls on the trip over. I gotta ride my bike on account the DUI I got," he explained. "Sometimes I lose stuff when I hit a bump."

  I did some more eye rolling, more teeth gritting, more shooting daggers in the direction of one fab party planner.

  "Hey, you got something else I could juggle?" Big Red asked.

  "How about eggs?" Ling suggested. "I'm sure Maddie has some eggs."

  "That sounds messy—" I started.

  But Ling was already on it, scouring my refrigerator. "I got some! How many you want?"

  "Three. Let's start with three," Big Red said. Ling shoved three brown eggs in his hands, and the clown stuck his tongue out in concentration. "Okay, here goes nothing." He tossed three eggs into the air.